Lament of the Exile
by Shonagon
Summary: Ed returns to Central to find himself out of favour and out of luck, with a backwater posting the best he can hope for. But his mission presents a moral challenge – and within it lie the seeds of a very personal tragedy. Revised
1. Rain on the Streets of Central

**Summary _– Ed returns to Central to find himself out of favour and out of luck, with a backwater posting the best he can hope for. But his mission presents a moral challenge – and within it lie the seeds of a very personal tragedy._**

**Disclaimer – I do not own FMA and I am making no profit from this fiction.**

**Author's Note – Yes, I have revised Chapter One, which I wasn't very happy with, It's longer now, and I've made several changes. Comments are very welcome.**

**PS- This fiction takes into account the end of the series and contains some spoilers. It does not take into account the following film, which I have not seen.**

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"_What can be said of Edward Elric, a man who was never quite a soldier, never quite a cynic, and, though he denied it to the last, never quite an atheist? Only that he was declared dead, and returned to life the product of events never truly __understood."_

**- K. Schiezka, _"Great Men? State Alchemists and their Impact on State History."_**

****

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Edward Elric was aware that he was a very unusual person.

He was unusual because he had tried human alchemy at eleven and had failed, He was unusual because he had tried it again at sixteen and had succeeded. He was unusual because he had been the youngest State Alchemist since records began. He was unusual because he knew there were other worlds, and because he had visited one.

But at the moment, he was unusual chiefly because he was staring at his own gravestone.

"Edward Elric." It said at the top, and below that "1899-1915".

Below that it said "Died in the execution of his duties." Edward wondered whether Mustang had had anything to do with that. It would have been just like him, to make sure that his old protégé went down in history as a patriot. The final revenge.

At the bottom of the stone was carved something in Latin that he didn't understand. Probably just more patriotic platitudes, anyway. For a moment he though he'd find someone and complain, until he realised quite how ridiculous that idea was. _Excuse me; I'd like to complain about what's written on my gravestone._ He'd only been back in Amestris two days. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life in some state-run asylum. He didn't consider himself a madman, and he wasn't yet at the stage where he didn't mind being called one, except-

Except that a small nagging voice was telling him that he did look the part of a madman. Either that or a tramp. His hair was longer than he'd kept it when younger, and cut rather raggedly, as if by someone whose fine motor skills weren't quite what they should have been. He was in need of a shave too, and his clothes looked as if they'd been slept in, mostly because they had. For a moment he compared himself to the boy everyone thought was down there beneath the stone, the boy who had been so bold and dashing and flamboyant. He wondered if he bore any real resemblance. He didn't think so. He'd become too …_drab_, somehow, too old.

A drab, unkempt madman, old before his time, wandering the streets. That couldn't be his future, could it? He hadn't been saved for _that_.

All of a sudden he wanted to be out of this place. The very air seemed to be suffocating him, the earth seemed to be sucking at his boots, trying to drag him down, and the stone stood at the centre of everything and _accused_.

_How can it accuse me of the future?_ Edward thought confusedly, but he knew it didn't matter.

Fighting down panic, he struggled across ground that was more mud and heavy Central clay than actual grass. The path, when he found it, was slick with rain and wet leaves, so that twice he fell and had to pull himself upright with his good arm. The other arm hung limply by his side. He was too tired to make proper use of it

Finally, he found the gate he had come in by and stepped gratefully out onto the street. The sky was damp and overcast, promising more rain, but he couldn't attach that information to anything else right now. He wandered without aim or purpose for a long time, while streets and buildings and faces went by in a mingled blur. The blind terror of a moment before had drained away. In its place was a kind of dreamlike numbness that seemed to cover everything, a kind of mist that separated him from everything else. He turned left into another street… and then another… and another…

_Thump._ The fog in his brain cleared slightly. Edward became suddenly aware that he was on the ground again. He heard a mumbled word of apology, and looked up in time to see a young woman in blue hurrying away.

Edward concentrated on hauling himself back to his feet. It was a difficult process, because his left leg had decided not to cooperate. Eventually he succeeded in forcing it to move, although it would have been easier if he hadn't been distracted. Something about that woman's appearance bothered him. It wasn't that he knew her – he was pretty certain he hadn't seen her before. No, it was something about what she was wearing . . .

And then it hit him. Of course. The uniform may have been cut a little differently, but the other Edward Elric would have recognised it in his sleep. She was a soldier, and that meant-

He turned around, his thoughts still trying to catch up to the conclusion the rest of him had already reached. A large blocky building loomed before him, white façade gleaming in the gathering dusk, banners flapping as the autumn wind blew. Central Headquarters looked just as it always had.

Unthinkingly, unknowingly, Edward had brought himself to the one place in Central he had assumed he would never see again. And it made sense. Here was a way to avoid a future of nothingness. Here was purpose. Here was a way to find the things he needed.

It was a bad idea. He knew from the first that it was a bad idea.

But it was the only idea he had.

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"Well Ed, you certainly took your time getting back to us."

At that moment Ed was searching his vocabulary for a word suitable to the degree of smugness in his old commander's tone, so he didn't answer right away. When he did it was without a satisfying profanity (he hadn't been able to find one) and with the air of tiredness that had been dogging him ever since that day in the graveyard. To his own ears it was beginning to sound natural. To anyone else it must have been unspeakably foreign.

"I was busy. What did you want from me, anyway?"

"Some indication that you were alive would have been nice." The sarcasm wasn't going away.

"Yeah, well if your flunkies hadn't kicked me out the door we would have had this conversation a week ago."

Mustang threw him an exasperated look. "You've been listed as dead for tour years, Edward. You can't be surprised they didn't believe you."

"I'm not surprised, I'm angry. You know who they finally let me see? Some dumb sergeant in Admin. Last I checked a State Alchemist ranked higher than a filing clerk, but this guy thought he was the Fuhrer and a Brigadier General rolled into one."

"There isn't a Fuhrer any more, you know."

"Yeah, I've heard that. I've also heard that the new Parliament has the military on a leash now. Makes me wish I'd been here to see it."

Mustang got up and sauntered over towards the window. Despite Ed's best efforts, he still hadn't lost his slightly amused, arrogant swagger. Clearly he wasn't above trying to make this interview humiliating, either.

"That's ironic, considering that you want your old job back." he said, staring out at the rain that hissed against the glass. Oh yes, he was definitely trying to make this humiliating, and Ed was not in the mood to be conciliatory.

"Just because I was in the military doesn't mean I liked the way they ran things. And it's still _my_ job. I never resigned my commission and you never discharged me."

"That makes you a deserter, doesn't it?"

"I was trapped somewhere. I couldn't get back."

"Where?"

"Somewhere. Look, if you want to court-martial me you can't do that unless I'm in the army." Ed replied, even more annoyed now. He hadn't meant to sound this desperate.

Mustang sat down again, and began rifling through the papers on his desk. Clearly he hadn't gotten any better at paperwork since Ed had left. There was a mountain of the stuff. Somehow the General's voice still sounded smug from behind it.

"You do realise that if I give you back your commission you'll have to serve where I and the State tell you to. No more freelance work."

Ed went quiet again for a while.

"Yeah, I know."

"And I can promise you, that posting won't be in Central. You'll be farmed out somewhere backwoods until the brass decide what to do with you. If they ever do decide."

"Fine. Whatever."

The rustling of paper stopped for a second. Ed knew what Mustang was going to ask next. He'd been dreading it from the beginning.

"There isn't any point in asking why you're doing this, is there?"

In a certain, rather desperate, way Ed did want to tell his old commander the truth, but the rational part of him knew he'd never get the words out. There was just something too personal about it all to be communicated. He had no way to say that he wanted a purpose again, or that he wanted to go back to Winry as something other than the wandering exile he had seen himself becoming. He couldn't even say that it he wanted to find Al, wherever Al was these days.

In the end, he simply said "No, sir."

Mustang just nodded mutely, his eyes on the documents he held. He sorted through them, every so often removing one and returning it to one of the numerous piles on the surface of his desk. Finally, there was only one left. Mustang glanced at the sole remaining document for a moment, and then got up.

He walked across the room and opened the door to a side office. Inside a youngish man wearing the insignia of a second-lieutenant sat, working his way through his own, much smaller, mound of paperwork.

"Nielson, is last night's duty officer still here?" asked Mustang.

The young man looked confused for a second, then said, "No sir, I think he's back on day shifts. He went off-duty at 19:00."

"Right then," Mustang replied authoritatively," In that case, I'd like you to take Edward here and find him a room in the men's dorms. And make sure he stays there. I don't want him anywhere near the archives or these offices, is that clear?"

_Why did he say that? _thought Ed. The archives, fine, he wouldn't have had clearance to search in them anyway, but why the offices? _What doesn't he want me to see?_

"Yes sir." said Nielson to his superior, then to Ed "Come with me please."

Well, there would be time to think about it later. He was glad they were giving him somewhere to sleep. He needed it.

As the main office door swung shut, Ed remembered how Mustang hadn't pressed him to explain himself. Pat of him wished his old commander had. The rest just wished he didn't feel grateful.

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As the door swung shut behind Ed, Mustang heaved a sigh of exasperation and sat down again.

If he was honest with himself, he knew he had never really believed Edward was dead. Pretending he was had made life easier, though. There was an entire chapter of his life that could be termed "the Elric chapter", and it hadn't ended pleasantly.

He'd certainly never imagined the boy would come back. Not Ed. Ed would never give up his freedom. But he had, and part of Roy was almost . . . disappointed? He was certainly perplexed, anyway. Annoyed too, if the truth were told, annoyed about the choice he now had to make.

Ed was undoubtedly gifted, but he was also rash, hot-headed and disobedient, and his hatred of the military government had bordered on the mythical. And the military itself was not the all-powerful institution it had once been. Ed and his complicated history could be the final weight that pulled it beneath the surface.

Besides that, Mustang had other priorities now, other protégés. He was on the rise, a General, with a department of his own to worry about. Did he really owe this boy enough to disrupt that?

Ed may have been a folk-hero of his day, but those days were gone. They'd been handed over to the archivists and the history-books and the petty messiahs of future ages, and nothing anyone could do would make them live again. Things could never be the way they were. Surely Ed could see it was foolish to try and make them so.

Roy knew that he was thinking about the events he and his old protégé had taken part in as if they were both old men, and he knew that in a certain way that was absurd. They were both still young by usual standards. And yet recently Roy had begun to feel very old indeed, one of the old order. In a sense, he knew Ed was as well. And he knew that, like his old subordinate, he too struggled with finding a place in a world that didn't seem to need him.

He knew Ed deserved the help.

Roy looked again at the document in his hands – a transfer request from a commander in the north. His post seemed to have the right qualifications. It was small, out of the way, and of little importance. The sort of place officers would be posted who were coming up to retirement – or rehabilitation. No-one would care, particularly, who was in charge there.

As a matter of fact it would have suited another officer under his command. Well, no reason why he couldn't send them both. Ed would need someone he could trust.

_So do I. _Roy thought, and wished Hawkeye were there.

He put down the paper, and picked up the phone.

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"Isen? Where's that?"

"North-east of Central. It's a small outpost, small enough to be commanded by a Major. Which is just as well, because I'm not promoting you." The smugness in Mustang's voice was gone now.

"How long will I be there?"

"Six months, maybe a year. Junior officers get moved around a lot. It's our life, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

Ed looked closely at the end of the document.

"It says here that I'm not going for two weeks. What am I doing in the meantime?"

"I want you to take a written assessment here in Central, then- "

"I've always had practical assessments." said Ed, annoyed now.

"Be rational, Ed," said Mustang, clearly trying to keep the annoyance out of his own voice, "Anyone can see you're not fit to take a practical assessment. You're exhausted, and I'm just guessing, but I'd say you've been ill recently too."

_Damm that guy, _thought Ed, _How does he know so much about me anyway?_

"After the assessment I want you to take a week's leave. Go see your mechanic."

_So he noticed how busted up I am too._ Ed had done his best with the automail, but if he was honest, he knew it wasn't a lot more use than a conventional prosthetic. It required a lot of energy to move, and all too often it gave up completely.

"I'll expect you back here to receive your transfer orders in two weeks time exactly."

"Right," said Ed as he rose to leave, then he said, with only the barest hint of sarcasm "Thanks sir."

"And Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"I will expect to see you in uniform, is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

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Alphonse Elric sat in the draughty waiting-room of a small rural station. Briefly, he wondered how long he'd have to wait there. He didn't mind really; he liked travelling by train. _You can sit and watch the world go by_, he thought, only to be brought up short by the strange feeling that the words were familiar. That feeling had been getting more common recently. Like the dreams.

He looked again at his travel orders, though he'd read them several times already. He hadn't known anything about them until they landed on his own desk – like just about everything else that came through General Mustang's department these days. Al had learned quickly that Mustang hated paperwork. Hated it the point where he kept finding singed forms in the wastepaper basket.

That job was at an end, now, he knew. They were sending him away. It wouldn't have done any good to ask why - perhaps they thought he was going crazy. Perhaps he _was _going crazy. Those dreams – all those things he'd never seen or heard or done but that he _knew _. . .

Suddenly Al found himself thinking of a dismal night a few weeks ago when he'd been duty officer for the graveyard shift. Never a popular job, but Al wasn't one to shirk responsibility. Around midnight one of the sentries had brought in the shift report and began telling him jokingly about some drunk who'd been at the gates demanding to see an officer. That feeling if familiarity had been strong that night, like walking through a world of ghosts.

"Said he was a State Alchemist. Yeah, right. He wasn't even in uniform," the man had said, and Al had had a sudden urge to ask him if the intruder had just so happened to be short and blonde, or wearing white gloves. In the end he hadn't, because he had the feeling it wouldn't have been looked upon kindly by his superiors. They always seemed to know if he asked strange questions.

He could hear the train now, getting closer. His new commander was on that train, with the details of his new posting. He wondered, vaguely, if it would be anywhere he knew. Unlikely, seeing as he'd mostly held posts in Central, but possible.

With a loud hiss of steam the train drew up to the platform and Al began to collect his belongings, only to have the standard issue document case spill half its contents across the concrete. He was so busy collecting his papers that he didn't think to look up until the train had drawn away again.

The figure on the platform was small, though not as small as it should have been, with golden hair. He couldn't see them at this distance, but he knew the eyes were tawny gold as well, bright and strong, alive in a fierce way.

Al started in shock and took a misstep, falling onto the wet concrete. He shut his eyes tightly, because he knew the ghosts were gathering around him, and they would only disappear if he pretended they didn't exist. Only then would they let the figure of his probably, _maybe_ dead brother resolve itself into the form of his new commanding officer. _Only then . . ._

He didn't even dare open his eyes when he heard footsteps coming towards him.

Not even when the footsteps stopped.

"Al? Is that you? Truly?"

Al opened his eyes, to be met with another pair wide with surprise, and there was no mistaking their golden colour. No-one else had eyes like that.

Al could never afterwards remember quite how long they sat there while the heavy silence stretched between them. A long while. But then Ed's arms were around him in a bear hug and Al became suddenly aware of the tears pouring down his own face.

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The train was old, dilapidated and apparently empty but for themselves – which, for Al, was fortunate, as he was still not entirely in control of his feelings. He listened in a slightly numb, detached way as Ed described his last few weeks. When he'd finished they sat in silence for a little while until Al spoke.

"So it _was_ you that night. At Central headquarters."

"Yeah, I tried for about a week before they would let me in. Did Mustang tell you?"

"No, I was on duty that night."

Another small silence descended.

"I didn't even know you'd joined the military." said Ed, in a tone less jovial than before.

"The General didn't tell you?"

"No. Guess he still likes to think of himself as the puppet master. Never mind that I didn't know whether you were alive or dead." Ed stood up and began pacing angrily. "I bet he's laughing like a drain right now, the manipulative son of a-"

"Brother!" Al interrupted.

Ed sat down again "Sorry, Al. But he didn't have the right. Now he's thrown you out into the middle of nowhere too." He turned to stare out of the window.

"Just where are we going, Brother?"

"A town in the north-east – Isen. It's pretty out of the way, which is probably why Mustang's sending me to take command. He doesn't want me in Central messing up his plans. But what I can't figure out is why he's exiling you as well."

Al contemplated his own suspicions about his abrupt posting. Could he tell Ed about them? _No, _he decided, _they'll only make him angry again._

"Perhaps he was afraid I'd help you cause trouble."

"But then why post us together? It makes no sense."

"I don't think it has to make sense, Brother. But I am glad we're together. Aren't you? All we need is Winry. Then we can be a family again."

Ed's expression flickered for a moment, and Al thought for a moment that he saw sorrow there, but it was quickly replaced by a smile. "Yeah Al, it'll be great. We've got a lot of catching up to do; I don't even know where you live!"

They talked about incidental things – the weather in Central, or jazz music. After a while they even laughed a little, the soft, quick laughter of tension put aside. They didn't ask the deep questions, and Al was glad. He was more than a little afraid of the answers.

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	2. Taking Inventory

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"_In the East men follow messiahs. In the North they follow politicians. __It has never been determined which is more dangerous."_

**- K Schiezka, **_**"The Forgotten Province"**_

Major J. Reynolds and the military installation over which he had, until this point, presided, had several features in common. Both were small, squat and slightly, though not conspicuously, unkempt. They were also roughly the same age, Ed estimated - probably around sixty years old. Here, however, all similarities ended. The base was a group of small buildings huddling around a single large watchtower, all built of drab local stone. Compared to the imposing façade of Central Headquarters, or even the Eastern Command Centre, it looked absurdly provincial. And there was an odd air about the place, an almost hunted look – almost as if its surroundings were threatening it.

The Major, in contrast, had a certain semi-academic stuffiness that spoke of an earlier life in the capital, although he seemed to have absorbed more than a little provincial anxiety, something Ed was quick to take note of. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and stared over them in surprise when Ed announced his name.

"Elric? The Fullmetal Alchemist?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"You are aware that you're dead?"

Ed opened his mouth to say something rude, but thought better of it, "The military made a mistake."

"Not too much of a mistake. I was beginning to think Headquarters hadn't noticed the situation we face here." said Reynolds in a burble of nervous relief.

Two hours now since they'd stepped off the train into mountain air too cold for November. They'd walked through the town, finding only closed shutters and shops doing no business, and the few passers-by had acknowledged their presence only with blank stares They had puzzled Ed until he realised it was the uniform they were staring at.

"Situation? There's a rebellion here?" Ed's only experience of rebellion was in the East, where passions ran high and no-one could really hide anything, but he had seen no such signs here, only cold stares and locked doors.

"Not a rebellion as such, but . . . well, let's just say there's unrest." Reynolds was looking even more nervous now – maybe he hadn't meant to make the situation sound quite this dangerous. But if that were true, why mention it at all?

"Is it religious?" asked Al.

"Not exactly." Reynolds said, "The local people, the settled ones, aren't actually much trouble. Not on their own. The trouble comes when someone else stirs them up. And it's the hill people who are doing that."

"The hill people?" Ed asked.

"Nomads, herdsmen, traders. Bit of everything, and damn dangerous on top of it. I wouldn't call them religious, but their culture places a lot of emphasis on tribal independence. On tradition, see? But they were happy enough with the state until about a decade ago."

"Around the time of the Eastern Rebellion?" said Al.

"Yes. It was about that time that the State began settling nomadic peoples as a matter of policy. They just couldn't afford to have them wandering around free, causing trouble. Only here there was resistance. The tribal king – the "_Saar_", they used to call him – suddenly stopped co-operating, and began plotting rebellion."

"What did the military do?"

"That's where it gets interesting. Officially, they didn't do anything. But the Saar was murdered, suddenly, by one of his own counsellors. After that the State withdrew the settlement programme in this area. And they _never_ did that, even in areas where it made no progress. No official explanation as to why, either."

"It doesn't sound like the State to let people get away with defying it." Ed said darkly.

"Who knows? But the State's grip hasn't always been certain here. Not like in the East. They just didn't have the presence here to make another Ishbal."

"But you've never had any problems yourself – I mean, you said there was no rebellion." said Al.

"No rebellion, no rioting. Nothing you'd expect. Just. . . whispers, rumours. Unrest doesn't have to be violent, you know."

Ed sat quietly in thought. Either this man was totally paranoid – not impossible under the circumstances – and seeing conflict that didn't exist, or he had just unwittingly revealed a secret history. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? Even at the height of its power, it seemed impossible for the military to have kept an entire rebellion secret.

"Thank you, Major. That's very helpful." said Al. He could always be relied upon to be tactful.

"Not at all, Captain . . ." Reynolds squinted short-sightedly at Al's credentials. The man must have had the eyes of a bat. "Elric? You both have the same name?"

"Well it would make sense," said Ed, who could _not_ be relied upon to be tactful, "seeing as we're brothers."

"That's unusual. It isn't normal practice to post members of the same family together, in case of-"

"We're sort of a special case." Al interrupted, before Ed could say something rude again.

Reynolds squinted intently over his glasses for a few seconds, but then he shrugged and turned back to his documents. "Well I suppose that's Alchemists for you- forever running rings around us mortals. We'd better settle the paperwork, and then I imagine you'll want to meet the senior officers."

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"That's an illegal move, Dalligan," said Lieutenant Keyes. Most people didn't argue with Keyes. At six-foot-three and with a formidable reputation in unarmed combat, the red-haired man was not to be underestimated, even if he was fair-minded to a fault.

"No, it's not," replied Lieutenant Dalligan, surveying the game board laid out between them. A small, slight, dark man, he had a talent for getting what he wanted without ever quite breaking the rules. It was a talent unusual amongst junior officers simply because those who had it tended to get promoted – or discharged when they happened to win one too many card games.

But Keyes wasn't willing to concede just yet. He was just launching into a complex analysis of the state of play, not to mention the moral necessity of keeping to the spirit of the law rather than its letter, when the door sprang open and a young man with a nervous expression stepped halfway into the room.

"What is it, Sergeant?" asked Keyes, abandoning his lecture.

"The major would like you to assemble in his office, sirs." said the boy.

"What does Reynolds want with us, Kai?" asked Dalligan, before Keyes could respond.

"It's not Major Reynolds, sir. It's the new CO," the young man checked something written on a clipboard, "a Major Elric. It says here that he's an alchemist."

"Hey, Winter, do you know any Elrics?" Dalligan shouted in the direction of the room's fourth occupant. Captain Winter snapped the book he was reading shut and gave a thoughtful pause before answering.

"I know of two State Alchemists named Elric, but I think one of them is dead. It must be the other one,"

But the young clerk was shaking his head.

"No sir, not unless there's been a mistake. Our new CO is down as Major E. Elric, but it says here that he's bringing a Captain A. Elric with him, listed as the Armoured Alchemist."

"Then the other one must be the Fullmetal. He used to be pretty famous, but I thought he died around the time Fuhrer Bradley was killed."

"Yeah, well if he's bringing his own second-in-command it looks like you're out of a job anyway," jeered Dalligan, but Winter didn't rise to the bait.

"Then it's just as well that's not my only job, Lieutenant."

"Sirs, if you don't mind, I need to find all the other senior officers, so-" the boy interrupted nervously.

"We'll hurry along, sergeant." said Winter, getting to his feet and doing up his collar. He observed the junior officers' anxious expressions. "Let's face the music, shall we?"

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It had been several years before, on a rare visit to Central, that Winter had first heard the name Elric. It had been late spring – he could remember the sunshine filtering through the leaves in the university garden – and he had been due to renew his own state qualification. Maybe that was why the state alchemy exam had become the main topic of conversation. He could still recall the animated tone with which the ex-colleague he was visiting spoke about the youngest person ever to pass it: a twelve-year-old boy named Edward Elric. It had stuck in Winter's mind for some reason. Perhaps it was because he himself had been so old when he took the exam, into his middle fifties. Perhaps he was the oldest ever to pass, just as this boy had been the youngest.

Not, of course, that he knew which of the two young men standing in the CO's office was Edward. It was even impossible to tell who held which rank, as both wore the black overcoats favoured by State Alchemists. One of them was very clearly older than the other – shorter, but with more experience in his tawny eyes. It was tempting to assume he was the senior officer. But, Winter reminded himself, the name Edward Elric had always been attached to youth.

Nobody said anything, but Winter could feel the eyes of his colleagues boring into his back. He realised that they were waiting for him to speak first.

"Excuse me, sirs," he ventured, "which of you is-"

"I'm Edward Elric" said the older-looking one, "This is my younger brother Alphonse."

"Captain Winter," supplied Winter, moving forward to shake his new commander's hand, and tried to conceal his shock as he felt the smooth coldness of steel beneath his fingers. He mentally chastised himself – no-one of his experience should have been uncomfortable with automail.

"Captain?" said the younger officer – _Alphonse_, Winter reminded himself. "So you were Major Reynolds' second-in-command?"

"In real life I'm the resident alchemic surgeon, but Central couldn't find us a replacement when Captain Soto retired." Winter explained, scrutinising the boy's nervous expression. "In truth I'll be glad to concentrate on my infirmary again."

Winter stepped back and let his junior colleagues introduce themselves – first Keyes and Dalligan, then Able, the other company lieutenant, followed by the other officers. The last to step forward was Sergeant Kai, who had lingered at the back, his red eyes anxiously avoiding the gaze of anyone else.

A strange one, Kai. Even with recent developments, you didn't meet many Ishbalans in uniform. Old views on that conflict were taking a long time to die on both sides, and it was hardly surprising that Parliament was having difficulty removing prejudices that pre-dated it by several centuries. It was costing them dear, though, and not just in the East.

Winter came back to earth to find his colleagues shifting uncomfortably. Dalligan gave him a sly sideways look, which he carefully did not return. He knew what was on the lieutenant's mind, and he didn't want to discuss it. Winter had made his own peace with taking orders from people younger than him years ago.

_Yes, but never with taking them from som__eone under twenty, _said a small nagging voice in his mind, _nor in a region with this one's. . .peculiarities._

He leaned back against the wall, trying to ignore Kai's anxious glance as much as Dalligan's casually disrespectful slouch. It was high time for the interview to be over.

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In a barracks this small it was normal practice for the commander and his second in command to share quarters. As it turned out, however, the second bunk in the small, whitewashed room had not previously been occupied, as Captain Winters seemed to prefer sleeping in his infirmary. Alphonse was glad about that. Displacing an officer who was already "one of the family" just wasn't something he was comfortable with.

The late afternoon light was flooding in through the tiny window, painting the bare white wall opposite a deep orange-rose. The room it lit was sparsely furnished. The two bunks huddled along the side wall, while a desk and tall cupboard occupied the one opposite, and a small and rather elderly stove squatted in the corner. A small room, but he and Ed had never had problems sharing the same space.

But that had been before, he reminded himself. Like it or not, his relationship with his brother had changed, and it was a change that came from a loss of familiarity. His image of Ed was based on information which was, for the most part, eight years out of date. It wasn't just that he'd finally grown a few inches, either.

Al looked over to where his brother leaned against the windowsill, at rest for the moment. That at the least was a difference. There was a quietness about Ed that Al recalled nothing of. The Ed he remembered had been an energetic child - precocious and driven, to be sure, but equally overconfident; a child who still believed that the rules didn't have to apply to him.

But that could not be Al's sole view of his brother, not anymore. The mixed-up fragments of the intervening years were beginning to reveal another Ed – courageous rather than reckless. Just as driven, just as focused, but with a realer understanding of the laws, moral and alchemic, that bound him. And now a third Ed was emerging who was neither a desperate child nor a knight-errant. It was that Ed he would have to get to know, here in this besieged compound.

And this place. . . It was so enclosed, so drawn in on itself. There were towns where the military was a welcome resident, bringing both trade and protection for the inhabitants. There were scores more where their presence would simply have been an accepted fact. But here the military was the outsider. The garrison lay within the settlement, but it was in no way a part of it – and the blank stares on the way into town had been testament to that.

Al went to join his brother at the window. It looked out onto the blank outer wall. Only a bare margin of sky was visible above it, but beyond it he knew the town was waiting in stony patience.

"It's so quiet," he said, himself so quiet that his voice was almost absorbed by the silence around them.

Ed nodded. "It's like the whole place is waiting for something," The quietness stretched between them again,

Ed stared down at his metal fist for a second, then took a deep breath. "Listen, Al. I'm pretty sure that things aren't as advertised here. I just-" he hesitated and dropped his gaze again. "I just wanted to say-"

Al didn't need to hear the rest. "I'm not going anywhere, Brother."

"But I want you to know – you don't have to stay here. Not because of me."

"Of course I'm staying. It's hard, I know. We've been apart so long, and I've forgotten things, and. . ." for a moment Al seriously considered mentioning his returning memory, but caught himself in time. ". . .and this is going to be difficult. But we're brothers, and we have to look after each other."

Ed smiled, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. "Yeah, Al. We do."

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Al stayed to talk a little longer, but eventually he seemed to run out of words and left, closing the door quietly behind him. It had been a strange conversation. Ed was almost certain that Al was hiding something from him. Too often he'd hesitated before saying perfectly mundane things. Well, whatever it was, it would come out eventually. Ed had plenty of his own secrets anyway: all those things about Germany he couldn't bring himself to talk about yet.

And Winry. . .That he couldn't even bring himself to _think_ about yet.

Ed hauled his battered suitcase onto his bunk and took inventory of its contents. It was more than half empty. Some space was occupied by his spare uniform and his civilian clothes, which, though by now ridiculously shabby and threadbare, he hadn't yet felt able to throw away. Once those were put away the only objects remaining in the case were books. Most of them were German treatises on chemistry and physics, though three were in English, and one was in French, which he read with some difficulty. He took them out and arranged them on the desk. And that was it, really, but for a few relics he knew the Rockbells still kept; everything he owned in the world.

Except that from across the room he could see something faintly shiny in the bottom of the suitcase. He walked back over, and, sure enough, there was something wrapped in dark material tucked into one corner, where he knew he had not placed it. The object was small and roughly spherical, and, where part of the cloth had fallen away a glint of silver was revealed. Hurriedly he pulled it the material off completely, and tipped the object into his palm. His pocket-watch lay there, cool and heavy.

But it couldn't be _his_, could it? His own watch had been lost. At that very moment it was probably lying crushed and broken beneath the rubble of an Eastern city. He hadn't missed it. It had been, well, _violated_. But, as Ed had only just begun to realise, he had missed some of the things it meant. And now it was here, back in his hands, but not wholly his.

He flipped open the lid and scrutinized the other side of it. Sure enough, what greeted his eyes was not a crudely scratched message. Instead, where he had been plainly intended to see it, there was a neat engraving. It read simply: _"E. Elric"_. His own name, now made into a connection between two worlds. There were other signs too, now that he thought about it. The moulding on the lid was a little heavier, the pattern slightly different. The silver case showed signs of wear as well, and he could still make out the places where a scratch or dent had been patiently removed.

His father's watch, kept carefully in working order even as the service it had represented receded into the darkness, and then in a place where even the science that made it could not exist. A small act of faith, though in what Ed did not know.

_In the science? In the future?_

_In. . . .me? Yes. But not just me. The next generation._

Slowly, almost as if sleepwalking, he slid the ring at the end of the chain onto the correct belt-loop, and settled the watch in his pocket. The familiar weight rested there, recalling earlier, prouder days.

And, in a way, that was that.

He was an alchemist again.

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	3. Writing on the Wall

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"_Where they planning to rise, or were they provoked? No-one now will ever know for certain. But when a powder keg is primed, it ceases to matter what the spark is that sets the fuse burning."_

**- K Schiezka, **_**"The Forgotten Province"**_

Alphonse lay on his bunk in the close darkness, while the slow minutes inched their way past him. He couldn't sleep. For weeks now he'd found himself collapsing into sleep that was dreamless, his workload had been so heavy, but now things were beginning to even out. It left him restless.

Was Edward restless too? Al couldn't tell, and that worried him all the more. If he was under pressure, then his older brother must have been under twice as much, but so far there had been no sign. Ed was just carrying on, struggling with supplies and reports and discipline, and all the other things State Alchemists didn't usually have to deal with. He was surviving, but he wasn't good at any of it, and the tension was not decreasing. There had been too many little arguments, between Ed and the officers, between the officers and the garrison, between the garrison and the townspeople, Even between him and Ed, if he was honest. Too many little arguments, too much tension. Somewhere, the embers were beginning to smoulder.

But who was incubating them? There was no way to know. Not yet, not until it was too late, but the writing was on the wall now. Literally. He had seen it, had reported it to Ed, had ordered it scrubbed away. But every day it reappeared, screaming the same message – "INDEPENDENCE! BUTCHER THE DOGS WHO OPPRESS US!" And, though over time the words changed, the message never did.

Al sighed. The blackness was pressing round him now, full of the tensions plaguing him. Well, if they were going to keep him up, he may as well focus on them. He got up, and as quietly as possible pulled his uniform on over his nightclothes. Maybe work would settle his mind.

Maybe not.

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"_I don't want you to go."_

_Ed opened his eyes and sighed. The ruins of his old home had long ago lost any terror that they had once held for him – indeed, covered in grass and yellowing ivy, the place had a strange tranquillity - but today it didn't look like he would find any peace there._

"_I can't stay with you and Pinako forever, Winry."_

"_I don't mean that, I mean this job the military want you to do," the blonde girl threw herself down on the grass beside him, frowning "Why do you want to go back to them anyway?"_

"_I have to find Al." There was no way he could tell her his other reasons, even if he'd wanted to. They concerned her too closely._

"_Al would say the same as me. You've done enough for them Ed, break away and live you own life." Sound advice – no point in telling her he was trying to follow it._

"_Do you know where Al is, then?"_

_She hesitated. "Not exactly."_

_Ed sat up, staring at her intently. He hadn't been certain she'd know, but he couldn't think of any reason she wouldn't. She had once been almost as close to Al as Ed was – closer even than most sisters._

"_I got a few letters after he left Dublith, and they sounded pretty normal, but. . . you know he couldn't remember anything. And then the letters just stopped. He never said where he was."_

_She looked away, as if to avoid his eyes, and Ed realised that he was probably wearing his hopeless look._

"_I'm sorry, Ed."_

_Ed sighed again. "It's not your fault, Winry. But the military, they've got the resources to find him, don't you see? I don't want to play their silly games, but. . ."_

"_Yeah, I know."_

_Winry went quiet again, as though she wanted to say something very difficult. "You could stay here. With me. Would that be so bad?" She turned back towards him, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes._

"_Come on, don't do that, Winry," He was about to accuse her of dramatics, as he usually did, but he knew she didn't deserve that. Instead he reached out and touched her face, trying clumsily to smooth away her tears. Her beautiful pale skin felt damp and puffy beneath his fingers, and suddenly he realised how many years it had been since he'd felt comfortable enough to touch her. And then he kissed her._

_For a moment she was __motionless, but then her arms came up defensively and she moved to push him away. She didn't say anything, but he could see the look of hurt in her eyes-_

Edward sat bolt upright, instantly wide awake. Over the past few years bad dreams had become a normal part of existence for him, but this one was new. And it was profoundly disturbing; even more so than the grey confused dreams of the other world that visited him some nights. Its unsettling effect lay in its closeness to reality.

That was how it had been – the grass-grown ruins, and the matter of Al between them, and Winry's tears. Except that she hadn't pushed him away. How much better it would have been for both of them if she had!

He had known, even then, though he'd shoved his worries aside. They were young, and the fire they lit in one another could not be resisted. But self-disgust had visited him later, when she lay in the curve of his arm in the darkness and he'd remembered that he had to go. He had known it was the worst thing he could possibly have done. One more "worst thing" to add to the great sordid heap of them all.

Pinako had known too, he realised. She hadn't said so, but it had been there in the heaviness of her tone the next morning. It had suggested she didn't expect to see him again any time soon. And she had been right not to expect it. How could he go back now, with this. . . _curse_ hanging between them?

No. Things had to go back to the way they were. They had to. Winry just as big a part of his life as Al was, in a way, and he could not imagine losing her – not so soon after finding everything that mattered again. There _had_ to be a way. . .

The darkness of the room was not quite as total as it had seemed when he woke. In the dim charcoal-greyness of a very early dawn he could make out the objects that he'd left on the room's small desk the night before, when he'd been too tired to tidy them away properly. Pen, ink, writing paper – what had he been doing again? He couldn't remember now, but it didn't matter.

Winry had always complained that he didn't write home often enough.

He didn't bother to light the lamp, but seized the pen and began writing in an untidy scrawl.

"_Dear Winry,"_ he began, _"The weather is terrible here. . ."_

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Most of the few shops and businesses in Isen were unfriendly to the garrison, but there were a few, at least, that treated them with apathy rather than stark hatred. One of these was a small café-turned-bar at the end of the main street, just before the town gave way to bare heathland, which had become a favourite amongst both officers and enlisted men.

In retrospect, Ed thought, that was probably because the staff took no offence at their presence rather than because it was a particularly nice environment. Like almost everywhere in the town, the place was dim and shabby, with a watchful air. Here, though, there was an added air of uncertainty as both camps mingled, which he was quick to note. If ever confrontation was likely, it was in a place like this.

The two brothers had chosen their vantage point carefully, both to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible and to gain a good view of everyone else in the place. This was advantageous for Ed - he knew how quickly a disagreement could turn into a fight, particularly in an environment with plenty of alcohol. It didn't take him long to spot potential trouble. At a centre table, he could see a group of junior officers, all of whom seemed to have been drinking a good deal, and who were swiftly becoming drunker and rowdier. His attention was particularly caught by Lieutenant Dalligan, who was talking loudly. He couldn't hear enough to tell what he was saying, but, knowing Dalligan as he was beginning to know him, he probably didn't want to.

He turned slightly to get a better look, only to have his view blocked by the figure of one of the bar's employees, a narrow, dark young woman he'd seem once or twice before. Before Ed or Al could say anything, however, she leaned down under the pretext of mopping at the table with a cloth, and said quietly, "Please, could you do something? There's going to be trouble."

She shifted her head to indicate the table where Dalligan and the others were sitting.

Ed turned his attention to the people surrounding the rowdy group. Sure enough, some of the civilians in the place were shifting uneasily, looking alternately at Dalligan and at each other. Ed's eye was drawn by one – a heavily built man whose eyes were a calculating dark green. _He isn't just a thug, _Ed thought, _He's more dangerous than that. _Ed saw the man smirk, saw him glance sideways at his companions, and then, just as Dalligan's table exploded into laughter-

_CRACK!_

The punch threw Dalligan backwards into the table, but in a moment he was up again, wiping at the blood flowing from his nose. With a yell of rage his launched himself at his attacker.

Ed looked at Al, beckoning his brother to follow. Al hardly needed prompting. In a second he was across the room and laid hands on the lieutenant, trying to pull him off the larger man. Ed joined in, seizing Dalligan's shoulder with his automail arm and dragging him back. It would leave bruises, but at the moment he didn't care – the important thing was to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible.

Struggling, Dalligan fought to free himself from their grip, one hand clutching at the collar of his tunic. He rounded on Ed, fury in his eyes. "With respect, Major-"

"No, Lieutenant. If you want to fight, you should join Lieutenant Keyes for unarmed combat practice. But you _don't fight civilians. _Is that clear?" Ed wanted to hit Dalligan himself. It still wasn't clear to him what the officer had said, but it had obviously been insulting. And then to punch back – how could he be so stupid?

Al seemed to pick up on his brother's irritation. "Go back to the base please, Lieutenant." he said in a calmer voice.

For a moment Dalligan seemed to consider disobeying. He took a step towards Al, his dark eyes flashing, but then he smirked. "Sure thing, _sir_."

With that, he turned on his heel and left, staggering only slightly as he reached the door. Ed heard his uneven steps on the pavement as they died away.

Inside, an uneasy quiet had descended. The other drinkers, military and civilian, were melting away now, and it was not hard to see why. Dalligan's attacker had gotten to his feet, and now he was flanked by two other men, both his equal in height and girth. Ed suddenly became aware of how much taller and stronger they looked compared to himself, and had to steel himself against taking a step backwards. He could not retreat – if he did he would lose, here and now.

And yet, astonishingly, before either Ed or Al had time to react, the young waitress stepped forward.

"You clear out as well. We don't want fighting in here."

The man who had attacked Dalligan looked down at her indignantly, and said in a low grunt of a voice, "You really sure you want to be ordering us around?"

The girl made a contemptuous little flick of the head that set her hair rippling behind her, "Do you want me to call my father?"

"Your father can't touch me and he knows it."

"He can tell the man you work for. I hear he's not too pleased when his associates start fights."

The man seemed to blanch. Clearly his employer was someone to be feared, but there was face to be saved. He gave a smirk not dissimilar to Daliigan's, and made as if to swagger out, his two companions following in his wake. But at the door he turned and said, as if he couldn't stop himself, "We all know whose side you're on, anyway, girl." Then he spat and was gone.

Al turned to look at the waitress, who had gone deathly pale. She was pretty, with thick dark hair and brown eyes. "You should have left it to us, Miss. They were bad men."

The girl shook her head. "They wouldn't have gone if you'd told them. Besides, even they wouldn't hit a girl with her father in the next room."

Ed frowned. This girl troubled him, "Hey, I've seen you before, haven't I? What's your name?"

She turned away from them and began wiping at a nearby table. "It's Sienna. Sienna Roy."

"You go out with Sergeant Kai, don't you? Is that what they meant when they said they knew what side you were on?"

The girl blushed a little, but then her face hardened, "I'm not on anyone's side, Major. And come to think of it, it's time you left as well. There wouldn't be any trouble in this town if it weren't for your military."

All of a sudden, Ed had the ridiculous desire to protest that it wasn't _his_ military, but stopped himself. This girl saw things clearly, and that unsettled him.

"Well, if you have any trouble, Miss, you should call us. That's what we're here for – to keep the peace." said Al politely.

Out in the street, Ed turned back to see Sienna lock the door of the cafe. He couldn't help but notice the worry flooding her face, or the way her hands shook as she drew across the bolt.

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Captain Winter was tidying a new shipment of supplies away when Ed stepped nervously into his infirmary. He'd spoken a great deal to Winter since he and Al had arrived, and found him likable and trustworthy, but he'd never before been into the room that was the doctor's home territory. It felt like an invasion, somehow.

Winter looked up, surprised, "What can I do to help you, Major?"

Ed looked around the infirmary. It was pleasant enough, well ordered and meticulously clean. The only oddity was that one corner of the room was curtained off. This presumably, was where the Captain slept. Ed shifted nervously. "Did Lieutenant Dalligan come to see you?"

Winter paused for a second, then continued with his task. "Yes, he did. His nose wasn't actually broken, but I put a dressing on it anyway. The greater wound was to his pride, I think."

"Yeah. He didn't like being ordered to leave, that's for sure."

"He won't like being punished either."

"That's not up to me. He was out of line. Plus, he gave that thug an opening."

Winter put the last of the supplies away and stood up. "Listen," he said, "I wouldn't ever presume to tell how to run things here, but if you take my advice you'll punish him as quickly and publicly as possible."

"You mean before anyone says we covered it up, don't you?"

Winter nodded silently. "Yes. This region is unsettled, as I'm sure Major Reynolds told you. We have to avoid anything that might escalate the problem." He paused again, as if what he had to say was difficult, "I suppose you're wondering why Reynolds never reported the continuing unrest to Central, aren't you?"

"It's crossed my mind."

"I never knew for sure, but I always though at least part of it was. . . Look, you've been in the military almost as long as I have. Do you imagine that back then they would have hesitated for a second before grinding this place into the dust?"

Ed looked away. "Have you ever heard of a town called Liore, Captain?"

Winter's expression was puzzled, "Yes. There was a rebellion, the military went in to stamp it out, and-" He stopped abruptly, "You were there."

"Yes. The only reason the State didn't kill everyone there is that the people had already gotten out."

"Then I didn't need to tell you what I did. I apologise."

"It's okay. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, it was stupid of me." Winter paused, considering his next words carefully, "Major, I mean no disrespect, but I must confess some confusion as to your presence here. I had heard rumours that you were. . . well, _dead_."

"It was complicated." That was not a subject Ed was willing to be questioned on. Luckily, however, Winter seemed to realise this.

"And now you're here in our dangerous little backwater. Most of us were sent here because we were out of favour. Dalligan claims it was so that we could made scapegoats of, in case more trouble sparked, but in your case I don't think that's true. Why _were_ you sent here?"

"I don't know." replied Ed, trying to keep the frustration from his voice – it wasn't the doctor it was directed at, after all. He turned around to see that Winter had gone back to his work. "How long have you been here?"

"Almost five years. It's strange; I became a State Alchemist so that I could use my skills to help people. I don't get much chance of that here." He sighed, and it occurred to Ed that Winter was equally frustrated at this distant transfer, although he showed it less. "But I've long since given up hope of another posting,"

If the unrest he had seen earlier bubbled over, they might all find themselves somewhere else soon, Ed found himself thinking. And not a new posting, either.

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Ed was woken form confused dreams by a loud and insistent knocking at the door of his room. He sat bolt upright immediately, nerves jangling with alarm. Al was already half out of bed, shouting "Come in!" just as the door was thrown open.

Lieutenant Keyes was standing in the doorway, his broad, honest face white with shock. Yet in spite of the desperate way he had woken them, he said nothing.

"What?" asked Al, reaching hurriedly for his uniform "What is it?"

"It's the night patrol sir," said Keyes slowly, as if he had bee stunned,"They. . ." He took a deep breath, "They've found a body."

Ed threw himself out of his bunk and began pulling on his own clothes. "Where?" he demanded.

"Round the back of Lampwright's Street, sir."

"Who is it?" Ed asked, but Keyes shook his head mutely, staring at him. Whether this meant that he didn't know or that he wasn't willing to tell him, Ed wasn't sure.

In the confusion, neither of the brothers thought to ask where Sergeant Kai was, although by rights it should have been him who woke them.

They found out where he was soon enough. The narrow alley Keyes led them to was overlooked by a large building. With a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ed realised that it was the café where the fight had taken place that afternoon. He fought down his mounting horror. The alley was full of rotting rubbish, but the prone figure lying on the cobblestones lay oddly separate from it, half submerged in the shadow cast by the torchlight. Ed did not want to look at that still form. Behind him, Keyes and the members of the night patrol looked on wordlessly.

A harsh, dry sob broke the silence. Stepping forward into the alley, Ed could perceive the small, slim figure of Sergeant Kai, cradling the head of the dead body, his face caught between horror and grief.

That was the final confirmation Ed had feared. Al followed his brother into the alley, shining a torch into the face of the still figure. Ed heard his stricken gasp with a sense of numb expectation.

A pale girl in a plain dress lay there, her skirt stained with a substance that shone wetly black in the light. One of her hands still clutched vainly at the purple marks around her neck. And her face, though twisted in pain and fear, was shockingly familiar.

Sienna Roy had been strangled.

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	4. A Death on Either Side

--

.

--

"_It's weird – as if Death is hemming us in. Fir__st he'll take the people we touch, and then, when there's no-one left, he'll come for us again. He's never forgiven us for trying to cheat him."_

_**- E. Elric in a letter to W. Rockbell dated 23**__**rd**__** December 1918, State Archives, Central.**_

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Ed found himself standing in Winter's infirmary. He still felt the strange calmness that had come over him in the alley, but below it he was seething with shock and anger, like the sea under a crust of ice. A defenceless girl was dead. Someone had dragged her into an alley and strangled her in cold blood. _What possible reason was there to attack her?_ he thought. Then he recalled her dishevelled dress, and shuddered in revulsion.

Sienna Roy lay pale and still on a table, her body draped in white. Ed's view of her was obscured as Winter collected his instruments, but behind the doctor he knew that her eyes were staring in his direction. For a moment he wanted to reach over and close them. He forced himself to remain still. That gaze could nevert be anything but empty now.

Winter finished his tidying, and sighed. "It's what it looks like," he confirmed, turning to face Ed, "She died strangled. Not by any cord, though."

"You mean-"

Winter nodded, "Someone did this with their hands. A big man, probably, seeing as she seems to have struggled. The substance on her skirt was blood, and there was blood under her nails as well."

"Couldn't you test it to find the killer?"

"I could probably determine blood type, but that wouldn't do much good without a suspect. Even then it wouldn't be enough to prove his guilt absolutely."

"But who would want to kill a teenage girl, anyway? She was innocent." Ed's voice was grim, and he clenched his metal fist hard in his pocket.

"She was pretty." Winter replied bleakly. As to whether he said it in mourning or because he had the same suspicions as his superior he left no clue. Ed didn't ask. He thought he knew anyway.

But Winter hadn't finished his analysis. He reached into a tray and picked up a small object in a clear plastic bag. "Listen, Major. I did find . . . something on the body. It might help you, but. . . if you wanted to ignore it. . ."

For the first time, Ed felt real frustration with the doctor. "I don't care what it is! She's dead, dammit, and if you think I'm going to stand here and-" But then he stopped short.

Winter had tipped the object out into his palm and held it out for Ed to see. It was small and shining, with a few wisps of blue cloth attached where it had been ripped off. Stamped into the rectangular piece of metal was a familiar symbol, a griffin with a tail. The crest of the state military. The same crest every soldier wore on the collar of his or her uniform.

"She probably tore it off in the struggle." Winter continued.

Ed's eyes were wide in astonishment "But that means. . ." He swore, "That means a one of the garrison killed her!"

"It's not conclusive. But it'll be enough for the locals."

Ed swung round violently, slamming his fist into the blank wall behind him. He swore again. This was how it started. A murder here, a beating there, and before anyone could blink all the countryside would be rising. Blood was going to flow in torrents.

"Major?" a quiet voice interrupted. Kai stood a few feet away, but, absorbed in Winter's terrible findings, neither the Ed nor the doctor had heard him come in. Ed turned round, suddenly guilty. He hadn't thought about what the young sergeant must be feeling. Kai wasn't crying any longer. Indeed, his raw sorrow seemed to have turned into a kind of dignity – the dignity of someone who was used to loss. It struck Ed suddenly that he didn't actually know anything about Kai or his background, except that he was an Ishbalan.

"Please," Kai said, that strange dignity shining in his red eyes, "I'd like to see her."

"I don't think-" Winter began, but Ed held up a hand to halt him.

"Let him." he said. Let this girl be mourned genuinely, he thought, before she became a figurehead. She deserved that at least.

Ed and Winter left the room as quietly as they could, leaving the young sergeant alone. As he turned to go through the door, he saw Kai reach out to clasp the hand of the pale form that had once been his girlfriend.

There was so much to be done now. Al was still supervising the clean-up of the alley, and would have to be notified. Then they would have to go through the belongings of everyone in the garrison, looking for the uniform jacket from which that insignia had been ripped, or any other clue. Including each others belongings? Yes, Ed decided. He and his brother would also be under suspicion. And then?

And then to weather the storm that would undoubtedly be coming. If they could. If that was even possible.

Silently, Ed thought of Sienna's dead eyes staring into his, and made a private vow. He would find the person who had done this, this person who had brutally murdered an innocent girl and in the process plunged everyone into danger. He would make sure justice was carried out.

With his own hands, if necessary.

--

Al was dead tired, and although he and Ed had retreated to the small room they shared in order to discuss events, he couldn't rest yet. Clearing up the alley had taken all night and well into the next morning, made more difficult by the crowd of townspeople who had appeared after sunrise. They hadn't actually said, or done, anything. They had just stood there, staring in hostile silence. Al wasn't fooled, though. He knew there would be open violence soon. This was merely a space while everyone drew breath.

Al examined the battered metal rectangle his brother handed him. He recognised it immediately.

"I don't understand," he began hesitantly, "That means-"

"I know what it means, Al." Ed's voice was cold and grim.

"But… Brother, nobody here is capable of murder."

"How can we know, Al? We don't know them." replied Ed.

That was the real problem. Al couldn't think of a single member of the garrison who struck him as a murderer – if it was really possible to spot one – but neither of them knew anyone in the garrison well enough to tell, not even Kai or Winter. What was worse, if they were expecting any co-operation from the junior officers, they weren't going to get it. Nobody in this town trusted outsiders, not even the soldiers.

"Listen, Al," said Ed slowly, "You know how things are going to go here. This is your last chance. If you can get away, go-" he gave a grim chuckle, "go to Mustang. Maybe he'll send help."

"I'm not going anywhere. I mean that, Brother," said Al, with an edge to his voice. He took a few steps across the room and halted at the window, staring out. The light seeping in was cold and grey. "You need me here."

"I need you alive, Al."

"What good is that if you're facing danger by yourself? I'm staying."

"You know what it'll come to in the end, don't you? Even if we find this killer."

A rush of unfamiliar images rose unbidden in Al's mind. _A little girl with her hair in plaits_… _A dark bloodstain on an alley_ _wall_… _A man with a gaping wound in his skull_… _A woman who moved like a snake_. And then one inexplicable, sickening feeling – _Blood sliding down the _inside_ of him_…

"We always knew, Brother," Al turned his face back to the window and the blank wall beyond it. "We always knew."

--

The morning post hit the doormat with a faint rustling sound. Pinako Rockbell looked up from the kettle she was boiling, alerted by the sound of the letterbox. True to form, it had arrived late, but better late than never. She strolled over and picked up the little pile of envelopes.

One by one she dropped them on the table. A bill, A letter from a customer containing (she hoped) payment, this month's copy of "Practical Mechanics" magazine, another bill . . . She stopped short as she caught sight of the last letter in the pile. The uneven handwriting was unmistakable.

She had realised what had happened between Ed and her granddaughter immediately, of course. It had been written in the sheepish and hurried way he had left the house that morning, still more so in the way Winry had shut herself up in her room most of that day, crying.

Sure enough, the letter was addressed to Miss W. R. Rockbell.

If Pinako had been a younger and less well-mannered woman, she would have allowed herself to swear. The boy really couldn't be that stupid, could he?

_I've been in the world a long time, _she thought, _and I know it takes more than paper and ink to make things right again_. But surely even half-grown children knew that, let alone a boy who'd seen more of the real world in a decade than most people did in a lifetime! Yet still he was consumed by the childish desire to keep things forever as they were.

Pinako thought for a moment, then turned to go upstairs. In one of the drawers of her dressing table lay a small rosewood box she'd been given as a teenager. In it, she had always kept important things – everything from the documents for the automail business to a brittle fragment of the bouquet she'd carried to her wedding, more than fifty years ago. Winry knew it was private. She would never look there without permission. Pinako lifted the papers at the very bottom of the box and shoved the envelope there. Then, carefully, she replaced the lid and put the box back in its drawer.

Someday, she thought, when everything was right again, she would take that letter out again and they would be able to laugh at how silly it had all been. But not now. Now it could only hurt her granddaughter. There was no way back through a barrier like that.

Regardless of how much they all might wish for it.

--

Alphonse surveyed the confused tangle of belongings and equipment spread over the small room shared by the company lieutenants. None of the three men owned much, but spare uniforms, civilian clothes and personal effects still littered just about every available surface.

Nothing. Two days searching, and there was still no sign of the jacket from which the insignia found with Sienna's body had been ripped. It was probably long gone by now, anyway. The killer would almost certainly have tried to get rid of it. Burned it or buried it, probably. And with it had disappeared the only real chance of finding him, whoever he was.

"Sir?"

Alphonse turned around, shaking himself from his depressing thoughts. Behind him stood Sergeant Kai, looking grim and tired but not significantly grief stricken. He was holding up well, Al thought, considering what he was being put through. It probably wasn't fair to make Kai take a role in the investigation, but he was the only clerk in the outfit. It couldn't be avoided.

"I'm afraid there's nothing here, Sergeant." said Al, trying to be kind. "This is the last room to be searched, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, but-"

Al tried hard to be reassuring, "We'll have to look somewhere else, but I'm sure-"

"But sir, _look!_"

Al looked up to see Kai pointing towards the ceiling in one corner of the room. For a moment he was confused, but when he looked closely. . .

There.

Although most of the buildings were built of local stone, the barracks blocks at Isen had been built hurriedly from pre-fabricated kits, and as such they hadn't been built with proper plastered ceilings. Instead, the ceilings were constructed from plasterboard tiles, which were held by, though not fixed to, a metal frame like a grid. This meant that if one of the tiles was pushed upwards it would lift free, giving access to the space between the ceiling and the roof. Not that anybody ever wanted it. Nothing could be stored up there, because the tiles couldn't take much weight, and in any case, nothing could be taken up there that was larger than the area of the tiles.

But judging by the tiny gap Kai was indicating, one of the tiles had been removed from the frame and then replaced.

Al climbed onto the bunk that was immediately below that section of ceiling and pushed upwards on the tile. It took more effort than he had expected to lift it, but eventually it came free. He put one gloved had on either side of the metal frame and pulled his head and shoulders into the space above.

And, sure enough, there it was. A small bundle of blue cloth lay a metre or so from the gap. Al grabbed it in one hand and let himself drop back down into the room below.

Kai's eyes fixed frantically on the bundle. "Is that it?" he asked excitedly.

Al unfolded the blue cloth. As he had expected, it was a uniform jacket. Rather more surprisingly, it was sized to fit someone relatively small, and was stained with blood on the right hand side. Nevertheless, where the insignia of the State military should have adorned the collar, there was nothing but a threadbare patch of fabric.

He checked the inside of the collar. Generally speaking you marked anything that was yours very clearly in the army, or it wouldn't be yours very long, but surely the murderer wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave his name on the evidence condemning him-

But he had.

"Whose is it?" asked Kai, his voice an insistent whisper.

Al shook his head, dumbly. Suddenly he became aware that this was not being done the way it should be. Ed needed to see this before anyone in the garrison knew. "I need to take this to the Major." he said. "You can deal with cleaning things up here, can't you Sergeant?

"Yes, sir"

Al turned to leave, walking as quickly as he could. This was a real lead, at last.

He never thought to ask Kai how he had known where to look.

Later, in the relative privacy of the CO's office, the two brothers met to talk over the newfound evidence. They spoke quietly. Gossip spread quickly in any form of enclosed community, and even alone in a room with the door shut there was no knowing what someone might overhear. They couldn't afford that now. The entire garrison was like a wire held at tension.

Ed scrutinised the jacket carefully. "Where did you find it?"

"In the company lieutenants' quarters. Someone had tried to hide it in the roof space." Al replied, loitering over by the window.

"You think it was one of them?"

"I know it was, Brother." Al came away from the window and sat down, his face deadly serious. "He left his name marked on the jacket."

Ed frowned. "But why didn't he try and erase it? Come to think of it, why didn't he destroy the evidence? It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe someone hid it for him." That was a possibility. Perhaps the killer – the _suspect_, Al reminded himself - had managed to convince someone else he was innocent, that the evidence against him was circumstantial…

"Or maybe this place turns everyone into fruit loops," said Ed in a grim attempt at humour. "Either way, Al, its you I'll have to dump this on. I can't trust the other two lieutenants and Winter's got enough to do. I'm sorry."

Al nodded mutely. There was nothing to say. A small, bitter voice inside him was complaining at this of all moments being the one Ed learned to delegate, but he silenced it. It wasn't his brother's fault.

Ed stood up, his movements slow and weary. "You know, the more I look at this situation, the more I think we're being set up." He sighed, then straightened and moved towards the door.

He'd made the only decision he could make.

Behind the door, Sergeant Kai sat at his meticulously tidy desk. He held a pile of papers in his hands, but something in his manner suggested to Ed that he hadn't really been paying attention to them.

"Sergeant, I want you to supervise clearing out one of the storerooms." Ed ordered, feeling ridiculous. He was bad at giving orders at the best of times.

"May I ask why, sir?" inquired Kai, but his eyes, brighter than usual, belied his unassuming words. They stared at Ed fixedly, almost as if he knew what his superior was about to say.

Ed let his own tawny gaze meet Kai's, but the boy's eyes did not falter.

"Because my brother is going to lock Lieutenant Dalligan in there until we can determine why he murdered your girlfriend."

--

Lieutenant Keyes shivered, though, with his thick military-issue overcoat insulating him from the night air, it was not the cold weather than bothered him.

The street was deafeningly quiet. No one was about, not even an errant child or stray dog. Every one of the houses they past had curtains drawn or shutters locked, but behind them he knew there were people watching. The small knot of men he led tensed as one, hands on rifles. Their unease was palpable.

The people of Isen didn't riot. They didn't need to.

Keyes was a simple man, and he relied on the world to be simple as well. It made little sense to him why there was all this tension without anyone acting on it. But what made even less sense to him was why Dalligan had strangled a girl he had never met or spoken to. He knew Dalligan. He was cunning and conceited, certainly, but at the bottom of it no more evil than most men. And most men didn't go out at night to murder strange girls. Especially when they knew how much danger it would put them in.

Nevertheless, he had, and they were all in that danger now.

The patrol came into the end of the street, up to where it opened into the main square of the town. Keyes held up a hand to halt the men behind him. There were no lamps in the square, meaning that at night there were deep unlit recesses either side of him into which no one observing from the opening into the place could see. It was a good place for an ambush.

He moved forward cautiously, motioning for the man next to him, a Corporal, to follow. The man did as he was instructed, but kept a tight grip on his rifle none the less. Slowly, Keyes put one foot in front of the other, trying to look at ease, while attempting to fumble his revolver from its holster. Don't show alarm, he told himself, don't let them know you know they're there, just quietly and carefull-

He stopped abruptly, standing as still as he could, though his blood was pounding in his ears. He had heard a sound – the tiniest whisper of something scraping against stone. . .

One foot in front of the other. Don't let them know you're aware of them. . .

Another sound, this one terrifying. A smooth, oiled _click._

And then he knew.

Time, so sluggish a moment before, suddenly sped up with a vengeance. Keyes tried to bring his revolver to bear, but he had nothing to aim at. He felt the Corporal beside him trying to do the same, but they were too slow, he could feel it-

_CRACK!_

The gunshot shattered the silence of the square. The men Keyes had left in the alley started forward, rifles raised, but he already knew they were too late. The ambush team, if team it was – it could have been one man alone – had melted away.

On the ground lay the young corporal, his life's-blood pumping from the wound in his throat.

It had begun.

--

Miles away, another man heard that shot, and knew what it portended.

_Fair is fair, _he found himself thinking, _a death on either side._

He saw the lights in the town begin to flicker on. Time for him to be going. He hauled himself up from his stony perch and began picking his way down the hillside.

_It has begun, _he thought, staring at the distant majesty of the heavens.

Oman the Rock smiled.

--


	5. Excuses

--

**Author's Note – Ordinarily I wouldn't interrupt the flow of a story with notes, but the gap between this chapter and the last one was so big that I think it deserves an explanation. The reason I stopped updating was that in September I began my university education. For most of the academic year I have not only lacked the time to write, but also the privacy I find that I need to do so. Nevertheless, I certainly haven't abandoned this story, and I intend to finish it, or at least complete the majority of it, this summer. Please don't be put off by the shortness of this chapter – a lot of the material which I was going include decided to attach itself to Chapter 6 instead, for some reason.**

**I would also like to express my thanks to everyone who has read this story and in particular to those who have left such kind and encouraging reviews. Thank you!**

--

"There is an important Ishbalan proverb: "If we refuse to participate in change, the change never comes." This concept was at the heart of post-Resettlement Ishbalan philosophy. However, when we look closely, it becomes clear that as an idea it was influential far earlier than this. Even in their darkest days, the people of Ishbal remained almost unique amongst oppressed peoples. They never envisaged a messiah figure who would effect change for them, indeed, neither their religion nor their politics had space for one. Always they sought to effect change for themselves."

**- K. Schiezka, "Sand Philosophies"**

The narrow strip of sky visible from Ed's office window had darkened from sullen grey to black when Winter finally came to find his two superiors. His face was impossible to read, and despite the sinking in his heart Ed tried to find some hope in that. Unlikely as it seemed that the test results could be anything but more damning evidence of Dalligan's guilt, there was something wrong about the trail of evidence thus far. Why would a sly cunning man like Dalligan not think to destroy the evidence condemning him, or at least erase the connection between it and himself?

Winter slipped quietly into the room followed, for some unexplained reason, by Sergeant Kai. Ed looked up in surprise, and Al rose from his chair in the corner, puzzlement written on his pleasant features.

Winter caught their expressions. "With your agreement, sirs, I asked the Sergeant to join us, seeing as how this business concerns him so closely."

He was looking intently at Ed as he said this; a look Ed took to mean _Trust me._ Fair enough. This was Kai's business as much as it was anyone's – it had been made his business.

Al's voice was eager and full of tension, "What did you find? Is the blood on the jacket Dalligan's?"

"It is his blood type – type A." said Winter cautiously, "but it is not as simple as that. I have also tested the blood found on Sienna Roy's body, and it is not the same. The blood I found on her clothing was type O."

Ed heard Kai draw in his breath sharply.

"What's more," continued Winter, "I would like to reiterate my previous conviction that Miss Roy's attacker was a large man. In my opinion a man Lieutenant Dalligan's size could not have overpowered her without sustaining injuries much more significant than those we have evidence for." Though these words were clearly intended for everyone present, Winter's eyes never once strayed from the young Isbalan as he spoke them.

"It is my considered opinion," Winter seemed to consider his words carefully before going on, "that the Lieutenant cannot have murdered the young lady."

Silence felll. Al stared fixedly at the window, but both Winter and Ed kept their eyes on Kai, who was staring down at his hands.

"No." he said at last

"What?" asked Ed, visibly annoyed now. What the hell was Winter getting at? Ed felt that he was on the edge of understanding, but he couldn't yet connect up everything he knew.

"No, sir." said Kai quietly, "I don't believe what he's saying."

"Captain Winter is a medical expert, Sergeant," Al put in gently," We should listen to what he has to say."

Kai stood up as his voice began to rise, "He doesn't know Dalligan the way I do. None of you sirs do, with respect. He's nothing – just a liar. He has money, gets it from his card games, so he thought. . . . But when he learned that Sienna wasn't that kind of girl I knew he'd try to hurt us, I just never imagined-"he drew a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself, "I saw him come back that night. He was drunk, shouting, and he was dripping blood everywhere. And the insignia was missing from his jacket, just as the Captain said later."

And with an almost palpable click, the whole story came together in Ed's mind.

"I knew he'd find some way out of it," Kai was continuing, "he always does-"

"Which is why," said Winter in a quiet but no less forceful voice, "you planted that jacket. You must have realised Dalligan would try to dispose of it. And then you showed Captain Elric where to find it. You framed a man who now appears to have been innocent. "

"You don't understand! He's guilty. I had to make sure the evidence was found!"

Ed shook his head wearily. Why hadn't he seen this before? "No, Sergeant. The night Sienna was killed, Dalligan got into a fight with some locals in her father's bar. Al and I were there. We broke it up and sent him back here. That was when you saw him. When we pulled Dalligan off that thug, he was holding his collar. It didn't seem important at the time, but he must have lost the insignia then and-"

"No-" Kai began, but Al stepped in.

"Sergeant, listen to us. There were plenty of soldiers in that bar. They'll confirm what we say."

"Please!" Kai begged, "You can't let him get away with it! I know- I know what he did!" His voice was choked with tears. Winter laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Come with me, son." he said, "Come on." He began to shepherd the sobbing boy from the room. At the threshold he turned back and gave Ed another look. This one said _What are we going to do now?_

After a moment, Al asked tentatively "It was that thug who killed Sienna, wasn't it Brother?"

Ed sighed and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "It's likely. He took that insignia from Dalligan. And when Sienna intervened in that brawl she practically offered herself to him as a victim. I knew he wouldn't let the insult slide. But it can't help us. No-one here will ever believe the garrison wasn't involved."

"What are you going to do about Kai?"

"He planted evidence, Al. There's nothing I can do."

"But he believed Dalligan really was guilty. He wasn't covering anything up. He was desperate." When Ed heard those words, he almost wanted to smile. That was his brother.Even on the blackest day of their lives, Ed knew, Al would still be trying to prevent someone else's suffering. It was a thought which brought a little comfort to their desperate situation.

"I should have given him compassionate leave when she was killed, I see that now."

"You can still give him it."

A grim smile briefly crossed Ed's face. "Yeah, maybe I will. Someone should get out of here while they can." _Someone should get out of here alive_, he thought.

--

As night closed in, Edward found himself thinking ever more fondly of his bed. But, weary as he was, he did not dare to go to sleep until the patrol sent out under Lieutenant Keyes returned. In any case, there was still the day's neglected mountain of documents to be dealt with. Never mind his conviction that none of it would matter soon, the military paper machine still had to be fed. Grimly he settled back to work – but within half an hour he felt as if the stuffy air of his office were suffocating him. Instead, he took his papers and account books to the mess hall and spread them out over the end of one of the long tables. With a cup of strong coffee at his side, he worked late into the night.

An hour passed, and then another, and another.

As the time ticked by, Ed found it harder and harder to concentrate on the papers before him. His mind was constantly drawn back to his own worries for the near future. He found himself thinking of them with a kind of grim excitement. At least then the waiting and worrying would be over and he would be back in familiar territory, fighting for his life and his ideals. Nevertheless, he indulged in a brief, useless wish that he had stayed in Resembool – with the yellow leaves and autumn sunlight, and with Winry. He could see her so clearly, weeping beside him in the ruins of his old home, as clearly he could see Sienna, lying pale in that alleyway every time he closed his eyes to sleep. .

And then, horribly, the two became mixed in his mind, so that he saw Sienna, sorrowful but alive. . . and Winry, still and dead in some grey place, her hand still clutching something that shone faintly silver. . .

As quickly and quietly as he had drifted away, Ed came back to earth, stricken by a sudden horror. Had he slipped into true dreams after all? Or were those strange mingled images a creation of his waking mind?

He checked the clock. It was twenty minutes past midnight. The mess hall suddenly felt very cold, as if a mountain wind were passing through it.

"Sir?"

Ed turned around, rubbing futilely at his eyes, to see Lieutenant Able standing behind him. That was odd – if the patrol had come back in, it should have been Keyes that reported to him.

Anxiety and fear was etched into every line of Able's face. Ed could feel the pain in his head growing. "What is it? Is the patrol back?"

"Yes, sir, it's back." said Able slowly. Ed tried not to look him in the eyes; Able's fear was contagious.

"Where's Keyes? He should be reporting to me."

"He's with Corporal Hayne, sir. In the infirmary."

"Is Hayne sick?" Yet even as the useless question left his lips, Edward knew that was not why the Corporal was there.

""No sir," said Able, and his hands were shaking now, "he's dead."

--

It was half an hour before Ed and his hastily woken brother managed to get Lieutenant Keyes out of the infirmary, and even then he would go no further than the corridor. When Ed demanded to know how Hayne had died, Keyes hung his head. For a moment Al was afraid he would refuse to say anything, but after a long pause Keyes began to tell them about the ambush, speaking in a low, bitter voice as if the words choked him.

Al looked at his brother. Ed was listening intently, his face very pale. When Keyes had finished Ed dismissed him. He left, stumbling slightly and leaning on the wall for support.

_So this is it_, Ed thought almost calmly, _we've started dying. Which means that soon they will start dying – unless I find a way out for all of us._

By dawn the next morning, no one could go in or out of the garrison. A crowd of townspeople surrounded it, the main press of them around the two exits. From the office window Ed could see unfamiliar figures dotted amongst them. These few hard faced men wore drabber and rougher clothing than the townspeople, but the rifles they carried were clean and modern. Hill people. The ever-present silence was also beginning to break up as the crowd intermittently shouted slogans. At any sign of life from the garrison stones and the occasional bullet would thunder across the parade ground. Ed gave orders that no one was to go out, and ceased sending out patrols. There was no longer any point in them. Control of the town had been lost. But for all that, he couldn't bring himself to start shooting back. His mind went back to Liore, to all his efforts to prevent a massacre there. He couldn't perpetrate one himself.

Late that morning, Ed called together the senior officers. With both Kai and Dalligan absent, the room seemed strangely empty, and he couldn't help but number them among the casualties of the dreadful situation. Winter too, was not present, but he rushed in at the last moment. He was wearing his surgical whites, but they were white no longer.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, and then moved on to the news everybody was fearing, "Private Harper just died."

"How?" asked Lieutenant Able

"He was collecting food from the supply shed. Rifle bullet caught him in the stomach."

"Then we don't have any more time," said Ed. He took a deep breath. He knew that what he was about to say wouldn't be popular, "Listen. I know this goes against everything any of you have ever learned from the military, but I don't want to shoot our way out of this. Some of you might have heard about the uprising in Liore a few years ago. I was there. I've seen plenty of murders and I won't turn you into murderers." _Please, _he tried to add with his eyes, _listen to me_.

"But that's crazy-" began Able, but Keyes cut him off.

"Please, sir" he began reasonably, "surely you can see that there is no other way."

"There is another way. If I can get a message to Central headquarters, they might send reinforcements. Enough to make the townspeople back down." It was possible. The telephone lines were cut, and no courier could ever have gotten out, but the installation's ancient telegraph machine still worked, since the lines ran underground. Still, it was horrifically risky. For a moment, Ed doubted his conviction. He knew he had every excuse to fight.

But that was what had always made him different. Edward Elric was the one man in the military who didn't look for an excuse.

Nobody spoke. It was plain from Able's expression that he thought his commander had gone mad. Keyes just looked puzzled, while Al's face was completely unreadable.

Winter stepped forward, "I don't know about the rest of you," he said, looking around at his colleagues, "but I've seen bloodbaths. I don't want to be part of one. If the Major goes ahead with this, then I'll support him."

And it was Winter, Ed realised, Winter, whom they knew and trusted, who could stand there with his clothes stained with the blood of a patient and still say "no", who could sway the officers of the Isen garrison, not him. He could make them look above their fear and see that some lines shouldn't be crossed in a way that Ed, a stranger, could not.

In that moment, Ed came to realise that, maybe; just maybe, there were other men who wouldn't look for excuses.

--

The message was written, coded, and transmitted. Ed paced his office and tried to chase away his increasingly morbid thoughts. Outside, the noise became slowly louder.

And miles away, hidden deep in a cavern in the hills, Oman the Rock waited.


End file.
